


The Executioner of Sturmhalten

by RoryMercury



Series: Affairs of the Order [2]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Execution, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Psychological Torture, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryMercury/pseuds/RoryMercury
Summary: Every town has its method of punishment. Some are mundane, like Zumzum’s hangings. Beetleburg has its famous glass jars. What about Balan’s Gap? What is the final punishment for the worst of the worst?
Relationships: Anevka Sturmvoraus & Tarvek Sturmvoraus
Series: Affairs of the Order [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083770
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	The Executioner of Sturmhalten

This is Sturmhalten. They say the ghosts of all the people who died in the wars two hundred years ago still whisper in the fortress.

You think it’s because of all the people who have died since.

This is Sturmhalten. The place where only the worst of the worst go to die, you’ve heard. The ones who weren’t captured by the Baron’s garrisons. No, _those_ are sent to Castle Heterodyne, where a fate worse than death, it is whispered, awaits.

You’re here to face the Executioner. You shiver. For some reason, it’s not the same as facing hanging, which is what you expected. Here, in the cells, they whisper the word with fear. With terror.

Every single one of you, twenty or so criminals that you are, deserve to be here. Bandits. Murderers. Reavers. You’ve left farms and villages burning, the screams of your victims echo in the mists still. Your crimes are indisputable; indeed, you’re proud to be one of those who prey upon other people. You wonder how you will die. Guillotine? Beheading? Be drawn and quartered? You hadn’t seen anything that would indicate such a spectacle in Balan’s Gap; in fact, the place was so suffocatingly _civilised_ you didn’t think they had anything more terrifying than a firing squad. But no, every single one of the men and women here tremble and are made meek by the words: _It is time for you to face the Executioner_.

Now it is your turn. You stand and sneer at the others, and follow the guards out of the cell. You think you’ll be brought up and out of the dungeons. One last breath of fresh air before you die - unless you escape.

Instead, the guards drag you down dark hallways, as you wait for an opportunity - but they don't give you any. You are finally dragged into a very large room - so large you can’t see the walls or ceiling; but can glimpse the light of the moon through a single small window. The only light focuses on a large stone table with metal restraints on it, and the small tool table on wheels next to it. The table has grooves carved along the edges of it - channels, for the blood to drain.

_Oh God, Oh God no- this is a SPARK'S lab!_

The screaming starts, pleas to be let go. Pleas that go unheard. You are forced down; wrists, ankles, forearms, upper arms, thighs, clamped down. One large arch of metal goes over your hips. Then your clothes are cut away - methodically, with a sharp knife, cast aside like so much garbage.

Then you’re left alone.

You scream for help. For mercy. For your mother. The same screams and cries you heard and ignored so many times before, you utter now. Finally you do nothing but weep, until the tears run out.

Then you realise nothing has happened.

There is nothing but silence.

 _This_ is the Sturmhalten that was so feared?

Then a voice floats out of the darkness. Melodious. Beautiful. Cultured. Husky. Female. The kind of voice men dream of hearing crooning sweet lies into their ear as they lie in bed.

"Are you finally finished? Good."

The slow clack of a heeled boots heralds her approach before you even see her melt out of the darkness. She is beautiful - pale as the moon, with long, flowing red hair that is red like roses, large wicked eyes that gleam like river ice, and lips as red as blood, curved in a smile of unholy anticipation. Her body, in mannish clothes but cut for a woman's rich curves, make your hands twitch involuntarily with the need to reach for her. Her hips sway as she slowly struts towards you, in the most sensual stride you've ever seen in your life, her lab coat whispering around her calves. Just her _walk_ makes your groin twitch.

You, once the hunter, the predator, now know what it is like to be prey.

You can't take your eyes away. 

Especially when you see her eyes burning with that mad, mad light that has you know, without a doubt, that she is a Spark. She is doom. 

_Your_ doom.

Her eyes sweep over you, assessing, professional, appreciative, then approving. Then she meets your eyes and smiles as if you and she have a secret that nobody will ever know.

"I am Princess Anevka of House Sturmvoraus." Her voice croons, caressing over your skin the way you wish her fingers would. "Only the most wicked and evil of humanity end up under my hands."

She walks past and lifts something from the small tool table. You watch as she slides on thick rubber gloves, tight ones, which reach up to her elbows. As she works them on, the Princess' eyes never leave yours, her lips still curving in that smile. "Are you indeed, a man of such depravity?"

She lifts a clipboard, and reads from it. "Ah. Your crimes are indeed many. Yes, you are indeed worthy to be placed before me." As if she's lost interest in the report she drops the clipboard back into its slot.

Anevka leans over you, smiling. "How _lucky_ for me."

Finally she reaches out and touches your chest with her fingertips. You can't help but whimper; her hand is gloved; it is not her skin you feel. "A good strong heart beats under my fingers, I see. How many have you stilled, over the course of your crimes?" she whispers.

You can't remember. Her finger tips scrape down. "Answer me."

"Too many to remember or count," you reply.

Her fingers stop, just above where you hoped she would reach.

"Those people, those lives, belonged to House Sturmvoraus, you know." The sweet murmur of her voice makes your blood burn. " _We_ have a duty to those lives, those hearts whose beating _you_ have ended. Understand?"

The last word is breathed upon your lips, hers just out of reach. If you stretch, just _maybe-_

"Do you understand?" Her voice cracks, like a whip.

"I do, Mistress!"

What was that? _What_ did you just call her?

"I'm so _glad_ that you do."

She straightens and you whimper. Her body, while never having touched yours, warmed your skin from how close she was. She turns away, and her long red hair brushes over your arm. It is softer than any woman's hair you'd ever held in your grip, and that mild brush of the Princess' person is enough to make you want to kneel before her, and do anything - anything she wants.

"Wh-what do you want from me, Mistress?"

She turns, an eyebrow raised, as if surprised to hear your question.

"Why, what do _all_ women want from a man when they lie in front of them like this?" she places one hand on her cocked hip, amused by the question.

Your imagination runs wild. So many ways, so many acts and things you think is the correct answer, until her voice, once more, stops your whirling thoughts and stills them.

"I want you to scream for _me_."

You surrender, you submit. 

As if you had any choice. “Yes, Mistress.”

Your heartbeat is so loud -racing with fear, or arousal, you’re not sure - you almost do not hear her speak again.

"Tarvek, my scalpel."

You turn, twisting your head in surprise, as you finally notice the young, scholarly man standing quietly next to the rolling cart with all it's mysterious tools. He too is tall, pale, and has the same red hair as the Princess. He could be her twin, almost; handsome where she is beautiful, scholarly in appearance where she is sensual, the fit of his rich clothes hint at the fit body beneath. But when his eyes - brown to her blue - flick up and pin you with his cold and disinterested gaze above his pince-nez, you know for sure this Tarvek is her brother.

His lips curve very slightly, and a curious light comes into those eyes, and you tremble, as you suddenly wish to know what those lips taste like, as much as you wished for his sister's.

Wordlessly he reaches out with long, elegant fingers, and selects a tool. With a deft grace that speaks of great skill with a knife, Tarvek spins it in his fingers so he places it handle-first in his sister's hand. The light glints off it's long, fine edge, and from there, off of the Princess' glasses.

"Do you want me to hold him down?"

 _There_ it is. That which marks them as siblings for certain, removing all doubt. Tarvek's voice - aristocratic, musical, elegant, sensual, thrumming with that undefinable _something_ everyone in Europa knew meant _Spark_ \- sweeps over you like coldfire and has you tremble, leaving your nerves burning - _why?_ you wonder. You've never had _that_ interest in men before -

Or perhaps it is just because it is this strange Sturmvoraus Prince?

Or is it because they’re _Sparks?_

"Now, now... there are some things that siblings shouldn't share like that, my dear brother."

Prince Tarvek shrugs and folds his arms behind his back. “Very well.”

The Princess' eyes meet yours again. You are enthralled as she leans towards you once more. "After all, I don't want you to pay any attention whatsoever to anyone except me and what I will do to you."

She makes the first cut. And as your scream rises from your throat, you're not sure if it is from agony, from pleasure, or release.

([Click here for an illustration of Anevka Sturmvoraus](https://shadow.affsdiary.com/ggfanstuff/anevka_hime_final.png). If the image below doesn't work, right click the link, copy the link, paste in a new tab and hit enter and it should work. If that fails, click [here](https://www.deviantart.com/cutelildrow/art/Princess-Anevka-Sturmvoraus-870510780). I apologise for the technical difficulties.)

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally what I wanted to do to Year 2020 nearly _all year._
> 
> This was also originally intended to be posted as art in [Affairs of the Order,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026234) but the story it inspired when I was nearly done colouring doesn’t fit the main story’s tone, so sidestory it is!
> 
> I wasn't sure what tags should go here so if I have missed any, my apologies and please do let me know so I can add them.


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